


earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone

by inconocible



Series: as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Banging Pots and Pans: Dutch! Wasn't! Always! Awful!, Christmas Discourse, Cigarettes, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Frottage, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Light Angst, M/M, Needy Power Bottom Dutch van der Linde, Period-Typical Bisexuality??, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Sweet and Tender Sex, Vaseline Discourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: Christmas 1885, he thinks to himself, feeling so pleased with himself for taking this job, so thankful for having this time with Dutch. All in all, off to an excellent start.





	earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone

**Author's Note:**

> if i were a shepherd i would bring a lamb,  
> if i were a wise man i would do my part,  
> yet what i can i give him, [give my heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Xq6jpYj_78)

“Dutch, we’ve got to try to make camp,” Hosea’s calling out, the wind whipping at his face, stinging his skin.

He’s especially cold, now, because he’d given his scarf to Dutch, a couple hours of difficult riding ago, covered up his own nose and mouth with a spare bandanna, insisting he was fine. He resolves to ask Susan to knit Dutch a new scarf, once they get back. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s cold as hell, and he regrets, just a bit, giving up his scarf to his partner. But he hadn’t been able to resist the redness in Dutch’s cheeks, the last time they’d stopped for a moment to get their bearings, nor had he been able to look away from the way Dutch’s chapped lower lip had split open, had been sluggishly bleeding in the cold. “Where’s your scarf, idiot?” Hosea had asked him, watching, transfixed, as Dutch had licked a bead of blood off his lip. Upon discovering that Dutch somehow didn’t own a scarf at all, he’d impulsively ripped his own off of his neck, wrapped it tightly around Dutch’s neck and face and dug around in his saddlebag for a bandana for his own face, not letting Dutch argue with him about it.

“What?” Dutch calls back, not far ahead, but what with the way the bitingly cold wind’s howling, fit to wake the dead, Hosea’s not surprised Dutch couldn’t hear.

He urges his horse on, gets closer to Dutch, reaching out with a gloved hand to grasp at Dutch’s shoulder as their horses halt, side by side, breathing heavily against the heavy snow blowing east, right into their faces. Snow has started to soak through both of their coats.

“I said, we’ve got to try to make camp,” Hosea repeats, still gripping Dutch’s shoulder with one hand, patting his horse’s neck with the other. “ ‘Less you want one of these horses, or one of us, to start freezin’ to death.”

Dutch turns his head to look at Hosea, but Hosea can barely read his expression, what with his face covered by the scarf and his hat pulled down low. The tips of his ears are as red as a ripe tomato, though, and Hosea frowns to himself behind his bandanna, worries.

“Don’t exactly see any good campin’ spots, Hosea,” Dutch says, muffled from behind the scarf. “Besides, I just wanna get home.”

Hosea sighs. “I know you do,” he says. “But we ain’t gettin’ home tonight in this, Dutch, you know that. With this slow going?” He shakes his head. “I say, we make camp, first good lookin’ spot we find. Blizzard’s only gettin’ worse.”

Dutch makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I _promised_ John,” he says. “That boy hasn’t had a proper Christmas since --”

“Well, there ain’t much we can do about that now, is there?” Hosea challenges. “Come on,” he says, and he spurs his horse into a slow trot again, fighting against the wind and the cold.

Yes, it’s Christmas Eve, and yes, Dutch had promised John -- and Arthur, and Susan, and Bessie -- that they’d be back by Christmas. Foolish of him to’ve done that, Hosea thinks, but it’s too late to take it back, now. The job had simply taken longer than they’d expected. What was supposed to be a quick and clean stagecoach robbery had turned into lying in wait for several days, the coach routes all slowed down by nasty winter weather that had lasted the whole week. The robbery had turned out fine, just fine, once the coach had finally passed through, but then they’d ended up needing to take a more circuitous escape route than they’d originally planned, the law on their tails for a couple of days before they’d shaken them, and then, when they’d finally felt comfortable turning westward, toward home, that nasty winter weather had just picked back up with increased ferocity.

Another hour or so of riding, and their horses are barely managing to keep up a trot, slowed down by the vicious wind and swirling snow. Hosea can barely see four feet ahead of him; what’s worse, the sun’s nearly down, the night falling fast and cold and dark.

Hosea worries, briefly but seriously, about dying out here, freezing to death.

“Hey!” Dutch calls out, jolting Hosea from his thoughts. “Up there!”

Hosea squints in the direction of Dutch’s outstretched arm, barely making out some kind of building in the distance.

“Let’s check it out,” he calls back, and they turn the horses off the main path, fighting through deep snow drifts until they reach the building. It’s one of the crudest, smallest cabins Hosea’s seen in some time, far worse than the cozy, sturdy, three-roomer they’re renting for the winter, back home -- but, at this point, anything with a roof and at least two walls would be an improvement over the current situation.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Dutch calls. He’s already swinging off his horse, hitching her to the side of the small porch, and Hosea sighs, dismounts stiffly from his own horse, hitching him up beside Dutch’s. The porch’s overhang is barely big enough to shelter the two horses, and Hosea’s still got a distant worry, in the back of his mind, about one of the them freezing to death overnight, but he tries to tell himself it’s better than nothing.

“Hello?” Dutch is calling out, peering into the cabin with his pistol drawn.

Hosea steps inside behind Dutch, one hand on his revolver, but not feeling too tense about it, predicting, correctly, that this place is abandoned. It’s been hours since they’ve seen any other folks on the road, and, if anyone _were_ here, they’d be fools not to have a fire going.

Dutch fumbles in the breast pocket of his coat for his matchbook, holsters his pistol, strikes one, lifting it in front of him, looking tentatively around the small, one-room cabin.

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Dutch says, taking in the dust and mildew that linger on every surface, the cabinets hanging ajar, the old, dead embers in the fireplace, the small, lumpy straw tick pallet on the floor near the fireplace.

“Looks like it’s been raided,” Hosea observes, stomping his feet more heavily than he usually would as he walks through the kitchen area, closing all the bare cabinets. “Damn, my feet are freezing,” he swears, under his breath, and Dutch looks over at him from where he’s standing in front of the fireplace with a frown.

“You see anything that could be tinder?” he asks, from where he’s inspecting the one, single dry log laying on the floor next to the fireplace, and the old, dead coals in the hearth. It’s not enough to get them through the night, but the only furniture left in the house is the crudely-built kitchen table, no chairs in sight. Hosea’s not sure if the table’s worth the effort to burn.

“I picked up a couple’a newspapers in town,” Hosea offers, still trying to tell himself that one log and a couple newspapers are better than nothing, and he stomps back out into the blustery night, patting the horses, unbuckling both his and Dutch’s saddlebags from them, but leaving them otherwise tacked up, just in case something necessitates a quick escape, in the night. He offers each them a densely-packed oatcake and a few kind, apologetic words before heading back inside.

Hosea drops their saddlebags on the table, removes his bandana from his face, puts it back inside his bag. Dutch has found a lamp, and Hosea opens the compartment of Dutch’s bag where he remembers the lamp oil being. He tops off the lamp, strikes a match, lights it, carries it over and sets it on the packed earthen floor between the fire and the pallet. Then he crosses the room again, bringing back the two newspapers and both of their bedrolls.

“I thought you wanted to give those papers to John,” Dutch says, as he takes them. He’s unwound the scarf, now, from around his face, left it hanging from his neck, and his gloves are on the floor, next to the fireplace. He carefully arranges the papers and the log in the fireplace, lights them, holds his hands up to the weak flames.

Hosea sighs. It’s somewhat warmer in here than it was outside, sure -- it’s covered, and out of the direct assault of the heavy, wet snow and the swirling wind. Still, it ain’t exactly what Hosea would call _toasty_ , and Hosea worries about how much good that fire is actually going to do them, and for how long. Their breaths are still visibly lingering in white puffs around their faces.

“We can always get more,” Hosea says, watching the single log crackle to life. He takes off his gloves, sticks them in his jacket pocket, rubs his hands together. He did mean to save those papers for John, that’s true. The three of them -- he, and Dutch, and Arthur -- are determined to make John a man of letters yet. But just the simple effort of getting home to John and Arthur feels like the bigger priority, tonight.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“A little, I guess,” Dutch sighs, and Hosea gets up again, digs around in his bag more, comes up with half a wedge of cheese, damn near frozen solid, and a packet of venison jerky.

Dutch is sitting back on his heels in front of the fire with a thoughtful, sad look on his face, but he looks up at Hosea, smiles a little when Hosea passes him the cheese, squats down beside him, takes a bite of the jerky.

“I guess we’re gonna have to get awful cozy, eh, Mister Matthews?” Dutch asks, biting into the cheese, glancing over his shoulder at the shitty-looking pallet and their bedrolls still rolled up beside it. He looks back at Hosea, raises one eyebrow suggestively. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze to death in your sleep,” he says, his voice dropping. He glances up at Hosea through coyly lowered lashes, and he looks so _pretty_ , Hosea realizes suddenly, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his face lit by the flickering flames from the fireplace and the old lamp. Hosea’s always thought Dutch to be handsome, easy on the eyes, and his typical sharp dressing only makes him look that much better -- but it still surprises him, a bit, these moments that come out of nowhere, that really strike him with how _lovely_ Dutch is, how _beautiful_.

Hosea struggles to swallow his bite of jerky, suddenly, captivated entirely by the sight of Dutch.

They’d held out for about five years of their partnership before giving into the magnetic pull that had always and already been between them, and Hosea feels that pull thrum strongly to life, now, in this moment. Though they’ve both had women, on and off, before, and since, Hosea still always finds himself _wanting_ Dutch, even, or perhaps especially, at the oddest moments, and still always finds himself, every time, surprised to be wanted in return.

Dutch is still waiting for his answer, Hosea realizes, and he finally swallows the bite of jerky.

“I suppose so, Mister Van der Linde,” he says, looking at Dutch, really _looking_ at him, long and appreciative.

Hosea’s eyes catch on Dutch’s face, and he feels himself frown. “You’re bleeding again,” Hosea adds, and it comes out so much lower, _huskier_ , than he’d meant it to. Dutch frowns in confusion, then his tongue darts out to where he re-split his lip, a moment ago, when he’d bitten into the cheese.

“It’s alright,” Dutch says, steadily holding Hosea’s gaze as he draws the blood from his lip into his mouth with the tip of his tongue. There’s something warm flickering to life in his eyes that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room, and Hosea feels the same flicker responding inside himself, low, in his belly.

“Hm,” Hosea hums thoughtfully, and he lays the jerky down on the edge of the fireplace, next to the lamp, gets up, goes back to his saddlebag and pulls out the tin he’d picked up from the pharmacist in town, while they were waiting on that blasted, delayed coach.

“And what’ve you got there, Mister Matthews?” Dutch asks, looking up at him. He re-wraps the cheese, lays it down next to the jerky, stands up, watching as Hosea’s rubs the tin between his palms, trying to warm it up a little, as he crosses the room back to Dutch and the fireplace.

“New East Coast thing,” Hosea says. “ _Vaseline._ Oilmen, apparently, swear by it for healing injuries.” He opens his palms, showing Dutch the tin. Hosea holds the tin in his left hand, screws the top off and holds that in his left hand, too, then dips the thumb of his right hand into the sticky balm. He lifts his right hand up to cup Dutch’s jaw and runs his thumb gently, gently over Dutch’s cracked, chapped lower lip, rubbing the stuff on, being especially careful as he touches the raw, bleeding section, right in the middle of Dutch’s lip.

“How’s that feel,” Hosea murmurs, barely breathing, transfixed, as always, by being so close to Dutch, by the reverent stillness that’s fallen upon them. He stretches his thumb up to swipe the remainder of the balm onto Dutch’s upper lip.

“Better,” Dutch sighs, still steadily holding Hosea’s gaze, and he leaves his mouth open, just a little, a plain invitation.

Hosea hooks his still-greasy thumb around the inside of Dutch’s lower lip, the warmth of Dutch’s mouth pulling a quiet, involuntary hum of appreciation from the back of his throat. “Yeah?” Hosea asks.

“Yeah,” Dutch says. “Believe you could use some, too,” he adds, quiet, around Hosea’s thumb, and he dips his own thumb into the tin, which Hosea’s still holding between them in his open left hand. Dutch reaches up, mirrors Hosea’s actions, sliding the grease over Hosea’s own chapped, cold lips, and Hosea feels his eyes drift closed, feels himself lean the side of his face into Dutch’s palm.

“There,” Dutch says quietly. Dutch closes his lips fully around Hosea’s thumb, sucking gently at it, and a shiver runs down the full length of Hosea’s spine.

Hosea opens his eyes, and it catches him by surprise, the look on Dutch’s face. He’d expected the desire, open and familiar and fond, the heat in his eyes that sends Hosea’s stomach swooping. What he didn’t expect is the twist of Dutch’s mouth, the furrow of his brows, the winkle of his nose.

“Ugh, shit tastes awful,” Dutch mutters, with a touch of disgust, around Hosea’s thumb, and Hosea can feel his mouth working as he swallows, clears his throat, but he doesn’t pull away, just closes his mouth back around Hosea’s thumb, _sucks_ , drawing it in. Dutch swallows again, and Hosea can’t make himself look away from the way his Adam’s apple works, just barely visible through the layers of coat and scarf that Dutch is still wearing.

“Oh, Dutch,” Hosea whispers, fond, and Dutch smiles around Hosea’s thumb. “What do you need, hm?” Hosea asks, flexing his fingers against the side of Dutch’s jaw.

“Hm,” Dutch hums in the back of his throat, touching the end of Hosea’s thumb with the tip of his tongue. His face scrunches up again, just a little, and something about the heaviness, the hotness, of the moment breaks as he opens his mouth, pulls back. “I’m sorry, but, honestly, Hosea,” he laughs, letting Hosea’s thumb slide from his mouth, “I need some damn water.”

Hosea laughs, too, shakes his head, screws the cap back onto the tin, follows Dutch the half-dozen steps back across the little cabin to the saddlebags, where Dutch fetches his canteen, takes a sip, swishes it around in his mouth, clears his throat as he swallows.

“That bad, is it?” Hosea asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Dutch says. “I’m thinkin’ that stuff is for _external_ use only.”

Hosea rolls his eyes. “I had a couple other possible _internal_ uses in mind,” he says, and Dutch laughs more, shakes his head, rolls his eyes.

“Of course you fuckin’ did,” Dutch says fondly. He takes a final sip of water, closes his canteen, replaces it in his saddlebag, turns back to Hosea with a sudden, serious look.

“We oughta get to bed,” Dutch says, taking a step and a half closer, until his chest is flush against Hosea’s. Hosea hums a questioning, appreciative sound in the back of his throat as Dutch takes hold of his coat lapel. Hosea closes his free hand around his own scarf, still around Dutch’s neck, as they reel one another slowly in. “Get warm, before that fire goes,” Dutch adds in a murmur, and Hosea nods.

“Good idea,” he whispers, into Dutch’s open mouth.

The kiss feels a little different, both of their lips slick with the thick, greasy balm, Dutch noticeably less enthusiastic than usual about licking into Hosea’s mouth. The stuff _does_ taste rather bad, Hosea concludes grimly as he breaks the kiss, leans his forehead into Dutch’s.

“You and your East Coast bullshit,” Dutch says, fond, quiet, breathing into the same space as Hosea.

“How was I supposed to know?” Hosea asks. “Anyway, it ought to heal that split lip of yours right up.”

“Sure,” Dutch says. “We’ll see.” He tugs at Hosea’s coat once more, dips his head, kisses him, light and gentle, before letting go, turning to their bedrolls. “Well?” Dutch asks, stepping out of his boots, untying his own roll, and Hosea sighs, picks up the saddlebags, to stow closer to the bed, just in case, follows him back across the cabin.

Even before this -- whatever this is -- happened between them, Dutch and Hosea had spent many a night curled up together, and they move through combining their two beds into one in smooth, quiet, practiced movements, extinguishing the lamp before dragging the pallet as close to the fireplace as they dare, taking off and spreading both their coats over their feet, wrapping themselves up in the old, familiar furs and skins and canvases. The money from the coach, a good take, is nestled into the bottom corner of the covers, just next to Hosea’s feet, and their boots and saddlebags and gun belts are at his back, close enough for both of them to get a hand on a couple weapons fast, if needed.

Dutch is pressing his back into Hosea’s chest, resting his head against Hosea’s right bicep. Hosea lifts his left hand from where it’d landed, on Dutch’s hip, and starts petting his ribs, lines up and down. Dutch hums appreciatively, tucks one sock-clad foot between Hosea’s shins, tilts his head just _so_ , an ask, not a demand, and Hosea leans in, kisses the exposed skin of his neck.

“What do you need?” Hosea asks again, a little surprised that Dutch isn’t already all over him. He’s half-hard at just the feeling of Dutch in his arms, could certainly get all the way there fast if Dutch pushed him, but that’s not the mood he’s getting off of Dutch right now, his energy low and a little sad, despite the willingness Dutch’d had to be kissing him, a moment ago; despite the fact that this is the first time Hosea’s gotten the chance to hold Dutch like this, much less anything else, in weeks.

Dutch turns in Hosea’s hold, slotting his hips into Hosea’s, wedging one leg between Hosea’s a little more tightly, pressing his face into Hosea’s chest, tucking the top of his head under Hosea’s chin. He sighs.

“What is it?” Hosea says, running his hand over Dutch’s hair, over his back.

“I don’t know,” Dutch sighs. “I --” He shakes his head. “Maybe in the morning.”

“You just let me know,” Hosea says, a bit surprised, but accepting, never pushing. “ ‘m not goin’ anywhere,” he adds, and he closes his eyes, feels Dutch start to relax, little by little, against him. The wind is howling outside, and the fire’s flickering weakly, and Hosea sighs, worrying more about the weather, about the horses, about John, about Arthur, about the ladies.

Oh, the ladies. And, truly, one in particular, looming large in Hosea’s mind: Miss Bessie Allen, an older, childless widow who they’d taken under their protection a couple months back, and who has gotten awfully sweet on Hosea, of late. Shit, these past weeks, between her focused attention, the anniversary of Annabelle’s murder looming, _and_ having their hands full with John? Hosea had jumped on this coach job, though Dutch had originally intended to bring Arthur, partially just to get Dutch all to himself, for a few days -- to get away from everything back home, to get away from all those worries. But it seems like he brought them along with him.

Hosea sighs again.

“What’s on your mind, darlin’,” Dutch murmurs, into Hosea’s chest.

Hosea shrugs. “I could ask you the same,” he says. “I feel like I can just about hear you thinkin’.”

“ _I_ can hear _you_ thinkin’,” Dutch grumbles.

Dutch had told him, once, a few years back, when they’d first started giving in to the pull between them, foolin’ around in ways maybe they shouldn’t’ve, that, “Ladies -- ladies come and go, and if there’s one you’re wantin’, well, reel her in. But, you and me? We’ll always have each other, ladies or no.” Hosea’s been thinking of that conversation a lot, recently, thinking about Bessie’s even-keeled sweetness, her pragmatic, kind way. Thinking of reeling her in, despite how keenly he’s been feeling the lack of closeness with Dutch, lately, too.

Dutch yawns. “What’s on your mind,” Dutch asks him again, moving his foot restlessly against Hosea’s shins.

“I’ve missed you, Dutch,” Hosea confesses, quiet and sincere, staring over the top of Dutch’s head into the weakly crackling fire. Dutch squeezes at his waist. “Believe we’re bein’ made into family men, what with those two boys, and Misses Grimshaw and Allen around all the time.”

“Hm,” Dutch hums thoughtfully. “Family men. Maybe,” he says, wriggling somehow even closer to Hosea.

“I know that boy’s on your mind,” Hosea says.

“Mm-hm,” Dutch agrees. “I feel like shit, for promisin’ John we’d be home, then not making it. That boy hasn’t had a proper Christmas since his folks -- ” Dutch sighs, shakes his head a little against Hosea’s chest. “Feel like shit,” he mutters.

“It’ll be alright,” Hosea counters, reaching up to pet Dutch’s hair. “We’ll get back soon enough. Tomorrow, at best. Before the new year, at worst.”

“You’re right,” Dutch says. “As usual,” he adds, and he laughs a little.

A silence wraps around them, and Hosea is nearly asleep, his hand still resting on Dutch’s hair, when Dutch says, “It’s just about three years, now.”

“Mm,” Hosea hums, sleepy. “Annabelle.” Three years on the 26th, to be exact, since Colm had dumped her mangled, abused body on their doorstep, since Dutch had --

“Yeah,” Dutch sighs, tensing up in Hosea’s arms. “Christ, I still can’t believe it sometimes, fucking Colm --”

“I know,” Hosea says, dragging his fingers through Dutch’s hair. “I know. No use worryin’, now.”

“I know,” Dutch says. “I just --” and he huffs out a frustrated sigh.

Hosea feels himself drifting, again; notices, briefly, how the fire’s dying. He lets his eyes close, feels Dutch start to relax again, burrow a little bit closer into him. “I miss you, too,” Dutch whispers, and Hosea tilts his head, kisses Dutch’s forehead.

“I know,” Hosea whispers.

He falls asleep with his lips pressed to Dutch’s forehead.

*

And he wakes up with Dutch’s lips pressed to his.

“Merry Christmas, Mister Matthews,” Dutch is saying, nudging sweetly at Hosea’s face with his own, kissing his forehead, his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones. Dutch’s nose is shockingly cold against his skin, and he’s pushed the covers back, letting chilly air in. But Dutch, himself, is so warm as he leans the entire weight of his body down into him, bracketing Hosea’s hips with his knees, and Hosea thinks there are probably a thousand worse ways to wake up than this.

“Mm,” Hosea hums, cracking an eye open, taking him in, the way his cheeks are flushed with cold, the little smile that’s playing around his eyes, the way his hair’s falling into his face, loose and soft. “Merry Christmas, Mister Van der Linde.”

Dutch dips his head and kisses him on the mouth: Sweet little pecks, at first, but Hosea’s tongue darts out to the seam of Dutch’s lips, and he yields with a self-satisfied hum in the back of his throat. He tastes of snow and the premium cigarettes he’d picked up back in town. Hosea reaches for him, brushing his hair out of the way, and he smiles, shivers a little, keeps kissing him, sweet and deep, in a way that’s almost surprising Hosea just a bit, given his melancholic mood last night.

“You been up long?” Hosea murmurs, into Dutch’s open mouth.

Dutch nods. “You’ll be pleased to know,” Dutch tells him, between kisses, “that not only did those horses not freeze to death, it’s stopped snowing.”

“Guess we oughta hit the road, then,” Hosea says, but Dutch’s weight is immobilizing in the best of ways, and Dutch’s hands are questing for the hem of his shirt, his cold fingers teasing at the skin of Hosea’s belly, and Dutch’s mouth is moving a little lower, along the side of Hosea’s jaw.

“Why don’t we, uh, open our stockings first,” Dutch murmurs, and he pulls his head back from Hosea’s jaw just far enough to look up at him with a suggestive, wolfish grin, but he leans his hips down even heavier and closer to Hosea’s, and the feeling of Dutch’s erection against his own morning hardness sends something hot and quick through Hosea’s blood.

Hosea shifts, sits up, palms at Dutch’s hips, and Dutch grinds down heavily into his lap, his eyes fluttering closed, his head tilting back. Hosea presses his lips, and then his teeth, to Dutch’s exposed Adam’s apple, kissing, biting. Someone groans, but Hosea couldn’t say who. Maybe it’s both of them, the vibration of the sound so close to him that it’s impossible to tell where it began.

“You’re beautiful, darlin’,” Hosea whispers, rolling his hips up to meet Dutch’s, and Dutch moans, shivers, scrabbles at Hosea’s waist, rolls his hips down in return, a hot blush rising high and fast over his cheeks and ears. Hosea’s hands find themselves under Dutch’s shirt, kneading at the skin of Dutch’s hips, just above his pants; one of Dutch’s hands is at the clasp of Hosea’s pants, the other’s bunched in a desperate fist in the bottom of Hosea’s shirt.

“You are,” Hosea insists, and Dutch buries his face in Hosea’s neck, his week-old beard scratching in a way that makes Hosea shudder. Dutch’s hand is busy working at the clasp of Hosea’s pants, and Hosea turns his head, kisses along the lower lobe of Dutch’s ear, feels his whole body shake in response. “And pretty, too,” Hosea adds.

Dutch whines, high and urgent, and Hosea grins, kisses along his ear more. “Mm,” he hums, “such a pretty, needy thing. _Open our stockings_ , he says. Needy,” he concludes, punctuating his point with a sharp nip to Dutch’s ear.

“ _Hosea_ ,” Dutch rasps, his hands working, now, at the clasp of his own pants.

For all of Dutch’s viciousness in a fight, and all of his stubbornness in most other things, it’s always pleased and surprised Hosea just how quickly he can pull Dutch apart, like this, reduce him to a lovely, shaking thing, when Dutch lets him. That’s the catch: It’s always Dutch, calling the shots, starting things -- surrendering, sure, but still, somehow, always in control.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Hosea murmurs. Dutch is pushing Hosea down to his back, now, and Hosea chuckles, even as he lets himself be pushed, even as he lets Dutch work both of their pants and underpants down just enough to free both of their erections.

The sensation of cool air on his suddenly-bare thighs and the touch of Dutch’s suddenly-spit-slick hand on his erection draw a rough exhale from Hosea, like he’s been punched in the gut, and he reaches for Dutch, cupping his jaw, pulling him in for a long, searching kiss. Dutch leans down into Hosea, holding both of their cocks together in his big, warm, wet hand, rocking his hips into Hosea’s as he strokes them both, as they begin to rut into each other, their shirts riding up under the motion, baring their stomachs.

“What do you need, darlin’,” Hosea whispers into Dutch’s open mouth, rolling his own hips up to meet him. One of his hands has slid to the back of Dutch’s neck, and the other slides to cup Dutch’s ass, squeezing it, brushing the pad of his thumb precariously close to the sweet cleft of it.

“Gotta be in the saddle all day,” Dutch murmurs, dismissing Hosea’s hand with the barest shake of his head. Some of their encounters can positively disassemble them both, but that’s not exactly where Dutch is leading this one, and Hosea always follows his lead. He hums thoughtfully, wraps both his arms around Dutch’s shoulders, both his legs around Dutch’s hips, and turns them in one, slow, smooth roll, pressing Dutch onto his back into the warm nest of their bedrolls, holding his body’s weight above Dutch with his right hand and his knees.

“Lemme take care of you,” Hosea says, spitting into his free left hand and reaching for their erections with it, closing it around them, appreciating the familiar differences in length and breadth between them. Dutch’s fingertips brush his, around their cocks; Dutch has locked his legs around Hosea’s waist, is arching his back up, clutching Hosea’s shirt in his free fist at Hosea’s shoulder as they keep rocking into his each other, as their cocks slide together. “That good?” he asks.

Hosea reaches to rub the pad of his thumb over the head of Dutch’s cock, and Dutch’s eyes drift closed, his head tilting back as his back arches impossibly higher. “Yes, yes,” he’s whispering, and Hosea lowers himself carefully closer, sliding his right hand under Dutch’s left shoulder, rutting fast and strong into the cradle of Dutch’s hips, now, fucking into the tight circle of both of their hands on both of their cocks.

“This what you needed, sweetheart?” Hosea asks, turning his head into Dutch’s neck again, laying his teeth to the lower lobe of his ear, to the skin behind his jaw.

Dutch shivers and gasps and jacks them both faster, pushing his nose against Hosea’s throat, and Hosea obliges him, matching his rhythm, holding Dutch a little tighter. His thighs are burning with the effort of this position, and he worries, distantly, about how his knees are going to feel all day in the saddle after this, but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Dutch, the way Dutch keeps making little whimpery, sweet sounds into the hollow of Hosea’s throat. Hosea twists his wrist as he jacks their cocks, and Dutch whimpers more, tilts his head desperately back, captures Hosea in a messy, open-mouthed kiss.

“You’re feelin’ awful sweet this morning, huh,” Hosea observes, gentle, quiet. He kisses him back, licking aggressively into his mouth like he’d wanted him to last night, and Hosea suddenly tastes blood, realizes they’ve re-split Dutch’s lower lip again. The tang of copper mixes into the kiss, and Dutch starts to moan, then draws his lower lip in between his teeth, trying to quiet himself.

“There’s nobody around, darlin’, you can let me know how you feel,” Hosea says, and Dutch lets his lower lip go, throws his head back, moans louder.

“God, Hosea,” he manages. He lets go of Hosea’s shoulder to run his hand through his hair, and he looks _wrecked_ , with his hair everywhere and his cheeks all ruddy and a single bead of blood on his lower lip, and something hot and greedy is pooling up in the bottom of Hosea’s stomach, egged on by the feeling of Dutch’s fingers tight in his hair.

“Good, that’s it, sweetheart, you’re doin’ so good,” Hosea encourages, relishing the sounds he’s pulling out of Dutch, and his breath catches in his chest almost hard enough to hurt, with the way his release is creeping up on him, all of a sudden. “Fuck, _Dutch_ ,” Hosea gasps, heat curling quickly through him, and Dutch is nodding his head, is fucking up into the circle of their hands a little faster, a little more staccato, with a little less control.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dutch is gasping, “yeah, Hosea, oh, _fuck_ ,” and Hosea holds Dutch as close as he can, lowers himself onto his forearm, presses his forehead to Dutch’s, breathes heavily into the same space as Dutch, feels his balls tighten precipitously.

“Oh,” he manages, gritting his teeth, “God, Dutch --”

Dutch’s hand is at the nape of Hosea’s neck, now, and the pressure of his hand pulls them that much closer together. “Yeah, Hosea, come on,” Dutch is whispering, suddenly taking the control -- as though he hadn’t been in control this entire time -- “come on, darlin’, come for me,” -- and Hosea _groans_ , feels his hips stutter and the muscles of his core contract, comes.

He manages to hang onto just enough of his awareness to know that Dutch is moaning and kissing at the hollow of his throat again, is using Hosea’s spend to quicken the pace of his hand over both of them. Hosea grunts, keeps following Dutch’s lead, smearing his spend over both Dutch’s cock and his own, even as he shudders through the aftershocks, groans in the back of his throat at the too-muchness of it.

“You’re so good,” Hosea manages to whisper through his heaving breaths, trying to keep pace with Dutch, “so good like this,” and Dutch is positively _shaking_ in Hosea’s arms, pressing his face into Hosea’s throat and whining and fucking up into the tight, slick circle of both of their hands, up next to Hosea’s still half-hard, overstimulated cock. “My beautiful, good boy,” Hosea adds with a smile, with a tender kiss to the side of Dutch’s face, saving that best comment for last, knowing how much it wrecks Dutch, to hear such a thing in bed.

“Don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop,” Dutch gasps desperately as he rolls up into Hosea, and Hosea tilts his head, sets his teeth to the lower lobe of Dutch’s ear, hums something affirmative and sweet.

“That’s good, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Hosea murmurs, and Dutch whines even louder, his whole body tensing up under Hosea’s. “My good, sweet boy,” Hosea whispers, and Dutch groans, comes, clutching the back of Hosea’s neck with trembling fingers as he does. “That’s it,” Hosea coaxes, holding him tight as he shakes, turning his nose into Dutch’s cheek. “Good boy, that’s so good.”

Hosea holds him through the aftershocks, eventually rolls them both to their sides, petting the back of Dutch’s head, the line of the knobs of his spine. Dutch, still trying to catch his breath, his eyes still closed in a mask of bliss, is back on his sweetness from earlier, pressing the tiniest, neediest kisses to Hosea’s lips, to his jaw, to his face.

Hosea sighs deeply, finally catching his own breath, fumbles blindly above and behind him for his saddlebag, somehow manages to get his hands on a handkerchief, gently wipes at the absolute _mess_ they’ve made of their stomachs and their hands and the bottom hem of his shirt.

“What a mess you are this morning, Mister Van der Linde,” he observes, warm, fond, as he wipes them off, and Dutch hums a long, appreciative, satisfied sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

“You like me, Mister Matthews,” Dutch says. He cracks his eyes open, pulls away from Hosea just enough to reach out and pat at the pockets of his coat on the floor beside their saddlebags til he finds his cigarettes and his matches. He lights one, takes a long, languid drag, lets the smoke go, exhaling through his mouth. Then he takes his second drag, and, before Hosea can pull away, Dutch is holding the cigarette between two fingers, turning his face back to Hosea’s, kissing Hosea deeply, passing the smoke to Hosea’s open mouth, making Hosea shiver into the kiss.

“I believe I do,” Hosea agrees, exhaling Dutch’s smoke.

They lay there another indulgent handful of minutes, Dutch lazily alternating between smoking his cigarette and kissing Hosea, stroking at his jaw with sweet fingertips. Hosea’s just barely aware of the sun rising outside, its light somehow making it in through little chinks in the cabin’s old walls.

“Mm, Merry Christmas, Hosea,” Dutch murmurs, when his cigarette is gone. He sits up, stretches his arms overhead, reminds Hosea of a big cat, uncoiling his body like that.

“Merry Christmas, Dutch,” Hosea says, sitting up, too, catching Dutch’s chin between his forefinger and his thumb, smoothing the side of his thumb over the sharp line of Dutch’s jaw, kissing Dutch one more time. Dutch cups the back of Hosea’s head in his hand, lingers, long and lazy in that last open-mouthed kiss, then pulls back enough to kiss the tip of Hosea’s nose. He finally pulls all the way away, gets to his feet with a sigh, and the moment between them is over, Hosea knows.

It could be days, weeks, or even months before another moment like this strikes them, but that doesn’t mean Hosea will lose Dutch entirely during that time, won’t get to see his unguarded sweetness from time to time, so he’s feeling satisfied, with how things are, with how they leave them, this morning.

Christmas 1885, he thinks to himself, feeling so pleased with himself for taking this job, so thankful for having this time with Dutch. All in all, off to an excellent start.

Dutch is adjusting his pants, tucking his shirt back into them, stepping back into his boots. He picks up his gun belt, fastens it around his hips, then picks up Hosea’s scarf, smiles as he wraps it around his neck. “Let’s get home to those boys,” he says decisively, shrugging into his coat, and Hosea sighs, smiles at him, gets up and starts adjusting himself, too, getting ready to ride.

“Your lip split again,” Hosea observes, as they get their things together, roll the bedrolls back up. He hands Dutch the tin of Vaseline from his bag, and Dutch rolls his eyes, but he still accepts the tin, swipes a little of the balm onto his lips.

“East Coast bullshit,” Dutch grumbles, but he still slides the tin into his coat pocket, and Hosea can only smile and shake his head.

*

The ride isn’t exactly what Hosea would call _easy_ , but it’s not as hard going as yesterday was, either. The sun sparkles on the newly-fallen snow, and the wind has calmed down considerably. They pass a sparse few travelers on the road, and the mood that everyone seems to hold is a jovial one, with nearly all of them calling out, “Merry Christmas, fellers!”

They ride all day, breaking, briefly, around mid-day, killing off the last of that cheese and a whole package of the venison jerky. Dutch sets a hard pace; Hosea knows their horses are going to need a couple of days of rest, once they’re finally home.

As the sun starts to set, Hosea frowns, calculating in his mind. They’ve got another handful of hours, probably, til they’ll reach the cabin they’re staying in for the winter, and he has more than half a mind to start trying to talk Dutch into finding another spot to make camp, taking another night out, just for themselves.

Dutch turns in the saddle, silhouetted against the streaks of pink and gray where the sun’s setting ahead of them. “We are getting home tonight,” he says, almost as though he’s read Hosea’s mind, and his tone invites exactly no argument.

Hosea sighs. “If you’re sure,” he says.

“I’m sure,” Dutch says, and that’s that.

Hosea takes a bite out of his last package of jerky, passes the rest up to Dutch. He carries a little wick in a mason jar of lamp oil, just for times like this, and he slows his horse til he can get it put together, lit and burning slow and low, holding it in his right hand and his reins in the left.

Dutch lets Hosea move up beside him, slows his own pace just a bit, and they ride on like that, shoulder to shoulder, in contemplative silence, bathed in the same light.

*

It’s so late, now, that Hosea figures it might not even be Christmas anymore, but they’ve been turned off the main road for some time now, and they’re finally coming up onto the clearing in front of the cabin.

Dutch sighs. “See, what did I tell you,” he says quietly.

Hosea shakes his head at him, chuckles wearily. “You said we were gettin’ home today.”

“And, look at that,” Dutch says, spreading his hands in front of him. “Here we are.”

As they near the house, Hosea hears the sound of a shotgun cocking, and he tenses, pulls short on the reins, feels his horse snort in protest.

“Show yourself, ‘less you want bullets for Christmas,” Arthur’s calling out, into the night, and he sounds about five years older, and about ten years _meaner_ , than he truly is. He’s sitting on the porch step, his feet planted in the snow, silhouetted by the soft light coming from the windows of the house, and that pup of his is sitting up on the porch next to him, growling like a hound of Hades, also somehow managing to sound significantly older and meaner than Hosea knows it to be.

Hosea feels pride and concern blooming side by side within his chest, first at the excellent way Arthur’s protecting the house, second at the question of _why_ he finds the need to be keeping a night watch, out here, on Christmas Day.

Hosea lifts the mason jar lamp, shines the light between him and Dutch.

“It’s us, Arthur,” Dutch calls out.

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur swears, “it’s the middle of the damn night, Dutch,” and he’s getting up from the porch, tromping through the snowy yard over to them, Copper right on his heels. Dutch swings off his horse, and he captures Arthur in a tight hug once Arthur gets close enough.

“Told you we’d be back by Christmas,” Dutch is saying. Arthur huffs out a laugh.

“Oh, sure,” Arthur says. “ ‘Cept I reckon it’s the day after, now.”

“It’s the thought that counts, son,” Hosea counters, swinging off of his own horse. Dutch lets Arthur go, and Hosea hugs him, next, with one arm tight around his shoulders, the other hand holding the reins and the lamp still.

“Now, why are you up keepin’ watch?” Dutch asks, as the three of them start walking toward the barn, Copper sniffing and jumping around the horses.

“Bad business,” Arthur says, gruff and tired. “Some boys were up here ‘round the house a few days ago, and I --” Arthur shakes his head. “Didn’t much like that.”

“O’Driscolls?” Dutch is asking, as they enter the barn. Hosea hands the lamp to Arthur, he and Dutch both making quick work of tacking down and currying their horses. Hosea’s legs feel leaden, his whole body tired from a long few days of riding, and he suspects that the ache in his knees and the soreness in his thighs have nothing to do with the riding.

“Yeah, I think so,” Arthur’s saying.

“Shit,” Dutch swears. “Why can’t they leave us the fuck alone?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur sighs. “All I know is, I had half a mind to go ride up to see ‘Liza, but I had to change my fuckin’ plans, what with Colm’s boys, sniffing around here. Felt spooky about it, you know, with --” and he cuts his eyes to Hosea, swallows tightly -- “it bein’ just about the anniversary of Miss Annabelle’s death, an’ all.”

“Yeah,” Dutch sighs, “I know.”

“No way I could’a left John and the ladies and rode out on my own,” Arthur adds.

“So, how did John get on?” Hosea asks.

Arthur sighs roughly. “I don’t believe that boy trusts any of us farther’n he can throw us,” he pronounces. “He has been handy, good helper, keepin’ a day watch while I’ve been keepin’ a night one, but.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Still?” Dutch asks. “Why, it’s been, what, four, five months?”

Arthur laughs. “And _you_ promised him you’d be home for Christmas, and then you _weren’t_ , so what good have you done yourself, Dutch, other’n make him mad, not wanna trust you’re gonna do what you say?”

The horses are all curried now, their tack put up, and Dutch sighs, picks up his saddlebag in one hand, lays his other arm around Arthur’s shoulders, turns for the cabin. Hosea picks his up, too, follows them.

“We _are_ home on Christmas,” Dutch says.

“Dutch,” Hosea sighs, weary. “You’re stretching the truth, I think.”

Dutch turns, an argument curling one corner of his lip down, but Arthur cuts in, says what Hosea’s tired mind can’t quite find all the words to say.

“He’s what, eleven, twelve years old?” Arthur asks. “And the way he lost his folks?” Arthur’s shaking his head. “Misses Grimshaw and Allen have been tellin’ him for two days, it don’t matter what the calendar says, that we were gonna wait for his stocking and the Christmas dinner and all’a that til y’all made it, but -- he’s still feelin’ like you _lied_ , Dutch,” Arthur says.

Dutch sighs heavily, lets go of Arthur as their feet find the steps up to the cabin, as they all start stomping the snow off their boots on the porch.

The door opens, Susan and Bessie stepping out with their shawls pulled tightly around their shoulders.

“I have half a mind to make y’all sleep out here tonight,” Susan says, her eyes narrow and angry. “Gettin’ back in the middle of the damn night like this?”

“Well, nice to see you too, Miss Grimshaw,” Dutch says, and he tries to take her hand, but she folds her arms over her chest. “Missus Allen,” Dutch adds, and Bessie, who has grown to balance Susan over the past few months, smiles easily, nods, lets Dutch press a brief kiss to the back of her hand.

“Fellas,” she greets them.

“Evening, ladies,” Hosea says, stepping up beside Dutch, leaning in to press a greeting kiss to first Susan’s, then Bessie’s cheek. Susan pulls away before he can barely touch her, but Bessie damn near leans in, reaches up, brushes her fingers over Hosea’s jaw as he pulls away.

“What are you doin’, bein’ so late,” Susan grouses.

Dutch holds his hands open and conciliatory in front of his chest. “I am so sorry,” he says. “We got held up, that’s all -- the job took longer, the ride took longer. All this snow.”

Susan narrows her eyes at him. “Y’all spendin’ Christmas together and not with us,” she grumbles. “That boy’s hoppin’ mad at you, Dutch.”

Dutch sighs, and Hosea can see the tension coming up into his shoulders, into his jaw.

“How about,” Hosea says, laying a heavy hand on Dutch’s shoulder, “Arthur, you rest, Dutch and I keep the rest of the night’s watch, and we can all cool off and celebrate in the morning, huh?” He looks at Susan. “We sure are sorry to be late, Miss Grimshaw,” he says, “and I promise you, Dutch pushed _hard_ to get us here as soon as we did.”

Susan sighs. “I don’t doubt you, Mister Matthews,” she says. She holds her hands out for their saddlebags. “Give me those,” she says, and Hosea and Dutch obey, handing them over, letting her hand them off to Bessie. “Come on, now,” she says, turning to Arthur, “you get you some rest, Arthur.” She turns back to Hosea. “He has been exhaustin’ himself, protecting us while you fellas was gone,” she says with a frown. She opens the door of the house, and Bessie goes in, her soft eyes lingering on Hosea as she goes. “You clean your boots first,” Susan says to Arthur, stepping inside, too, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, nodding at Dutch and Hosea as he takes one step toward the house, stomping the snow off of his boots, Copper still right on his heels.

“Arthur, I’m proud of you,” Dutch says, stopping him, one hand on his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, son,” Dutch says, and Arthur smiles.

“Oh, hell,” Arthur sighs, and he leans in, presses his face into Dutch’s neck, hugs Dutch hard.

“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” Hosea says, and Arthur lets go of Dutch only long enough to reel Hosea in, and somehow one of Hosea’s arms is around Dutch’s waist and the other is around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur moves his face from the crook of Dutch’s neck to the crook of Hosea’s.

“Merry Christmas,” Arthur says, and Hosea pats him on his back, lets him go.

“Now,” Dutch says, “you tell John, we are so sorry, and we are _doin’_ Christmas in the morning, you hear?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh through his nose, lays his hand on the door knob. “Yeah, I hear,” he says, letting Copper in first, then stepping inside.

Dutch sighs as the door closes. He turns to Hosea, takes a couple of sudden steps, leans his face into the crook of Hosea’s neck. His hat falls to the porch.

“What is it,” Hosea murmurs, his arms coming around Dutch’s waist, briefly, before he lays his hands on Dutch’s shoulders, holding Dutch out at arm’s length. Dutch’s eyes are closed, and Hosea reaches up, cups his jaw in his right hand, runs his thumb along Dutch’s chin. “You good?” he asks, squeezing where he’s still holding Dutch’s shoulder in his left hand. “Not too tired to keep a watch, are you?”

Dutch leans into Hosea’s hand on his face. “No,” he sighs wearily. “Just -- kinda wishin’ we had stopped on the road tonight, after all.”

“Mm,” Hosea hums. “You still feelin’ sweet,” he asks, dropping his voice. They don’t usually let themselves be together, like this, around anyone, save maybe Arthur, who had all but told Dutch he knew about it, anyway. Certainly not here, six of them to a three-room cabin for the winter, the ladies sharing the master bedroom and the four fellas in the smaller bedroom. Although Hosea knows that growing the gang is what Dutch wants, and he tries to want what Dutch wants, he also worries that the more it grows, the less he’ll get of Dutch’s attention, of his delicate sweetness.

“Maybe,” Dutch whispers. He turns his head to the side, presses his lips to Hosea’s palm, pulls away, taking one step backwards, running his hand over his hair, sighing.

“Maybe I’m just feelin’ like I don’t want to be fretting over the O’Driscolls in the middle of the damn night,” he adds, sounding more like himself, though still tired. He sighs again.

“Why don’t you head to bed,” Hosea says. Dutch scowls at him, opens his mouth, draws a breath to argue, but Hosea holds one hand up. “Rest up, so you can deal with apologizing to our young friend tomorrow, leading the celebrations. I don’t think I could sleep right now if you paid me to.”

Dutch sighs again, frowns at him, and Hosea takes one step forward, re-closing the space between them, reaching for Dutch. He captures Dutch’s face in both his hands, cupping his jaw fully in his palms, and he pulls Dutch gently to him, kisses his forehead. “You rest, sweet boy,” Hosea whispers, and Dutch shivers, his entire body giving in to Hosea’s touch.

“Now, that ain’t fair,” he says, and Hosea smiles, pats him on the cheek, lets go.

“Since when do I play fair,” he says, and Dutch huffs out a sigh he doesn’t mean, bends to pick up his hat.

“That’s true,” he says. He turns to Hosea, a smile softening his face. “Thank you,” he says.

“Any time, Dutch,” Hosea says, and he knows -- and he knows that Dutch knows, too -- that they ain’t just talking about keeping the night watch. “Goodnight,” Hosea says.

“Night,” Dutch murmurs, disappearing into the cabin.

Hosea sits down with his thoughts on the porch step.

*

In the morning, Bessie brings him a cup of hot coffee, sinking down to sit next to him on the porch step.

“Much obliged, Missus Allen,” Hosea says. The sun’s just risen, and he yawns, inhales the smell of the strong coffee, smiles over at her.

“You’re very welcome, Mister Matthews,” she says.

She waits a long moment, lets him drink about a quarter of the coffee, before she asks, “So, I take it y’all did well on your --” she quirks her mouth, like she don’t know what to call thievin’ and lawlessness -- “job?”

Hosea chuckles. “Yes,” he says. “We did mighty fine. Made a nice bit of money.” He sighs, stretches his legs out. “Feels good, to be having several good months,” he says. “First, savin’ young John’s life, then that job we ran, pulled in nearly ten-thousand, then, findin’ you?” He looks at her, sidelong, at the pretty color that’s come into her cheeks at his compliment, at the way the morning light is making the strands of her blonde hair that’ve already started turning gray shimmer like pure gold threads. “Several good months,” he pronounces.

“That’s good,” she says.

Several minutes later, when Hosea’s gotten through a good half of his coffee, the door opens behind them, Copper tumbling out of the cabin, Arthur on his heels.

“Mornin’, Hosea, Missus Allen,” Arthur says, and he glances at Hosea with a funny expression, like he thinks he knows something Hosea doesn’t.

“Morning, Arthur,” Hosea and Bessie say, together.

“You get enough sleep?” Hosea asks him.

“Sure,” Arthur says. “Sure, we’re just gonna go --”

John appears in the doorway with his shotgun over his shoulder. “You shut that door, in or out!” Susan’s calling from inside, and John huffs out a sigh, shuts the door a little harder than needed, moves over to stand next to Arthur.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Bessie says, looking over at John.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles.

Arthur looks at John, then at Hosea. “Dutch’s still asleep, so I told John we could go shoot a little, then come back, clean up, do all the Christmas celebratin’, right, kid?” He glances back at John, who’s frowning at Hosea.

“Right,” John says.

“You’ll be a deadeye shot in no time,” Hosea says, “with a teacher like Arthur.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Well, it was you and Dutch what taught me,” he says, “so I figure maybe I can do the basics, let y’all teach all the fancy, special stuff.”

“That sounds fine,” Hosea says, smiling at John, but John scowls more.

Arthur elbows John in the shoulder. “Would you cut that sour mood, little Marston?” Arthur asks.

“Don’t call me little,” John mutters. “An’ I ain’t bein’ sour.”

Arthur laughs. “Come on, I told you, boy,” Arthur says, “Dutch and Hosea, they ain’t ones to _lie_ to us. They just got held up, is all.” John looks at the ground, and Arthur sucks a deep breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and he looks so much like the perfect image of Dutch, when he’s reaching for the edge of thin patience, that Hosea smiles, shakes his head. “Don’t be all sour on Christmas.”

“It ain’t Christmas anymore,” John argues, shifting his weight restlessly around.

“Ah,” Hosea says, and all three of them turn their eyes to him. “And there’s the problem. Of course it won’t be Christmas until we’ve read Dickens.”

“Oh, right, of course, Dickens,” Arthur says, just this edge of sassing Hosea. “Well, first, we gotta do some shootin’, though, come on,” and he lays one arm around John’s thin shoulders, starts off for the woods with him, Copper on their heels.

Hosea sighs, turns to Bessie. “Those boys,” he says.

“They’re a handful,” she agrees. “You seem like you and Dutch have done a fine job with Arthur, though. He’s a fine young man.”

“Yes, he is,” Hosea agrees.

“You never had any of your own?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “He’s the closest thing I got, to a son.”

“Mm,” she hums. “That must be nice, to at least have someone you think of that way.”

Hosea looks at her sidelong. “Stick around long enough, if you don’t mind my being so forward, Missus Allen,” he says. “Arthur’ll adopt you, soon enough.”

She laughs. “Please,” she says, “call me Bessie, if you’d like me to stick around.”

She leans in, brushes a kiss to his cheek, and Hosea feels like he’s back in grade school again, flirting around with girls. Her lips are soft and plush and nothing like Dutch’s, the only lips Hosea’s been used to kissing, for several years, now.

“Oh, your face is like ice, Mister Matthews,” she says, as she pulls away. “Where’s your scarf?”

“Oh,” Hosea laughs. “I gave mine to old Dutch.” She tilts her head at him; he shrugs. “He needed it more. I was going to ask Miss Grimshaw if she had time to knit him a new one, actually.”

A smile plays around Bessie’s face. “How about you let old Dutch keep yours, and I knit you up a new one?” she asks. “I believe I’ve got a couple skeins of yarn around here in a color that would look just handsome on you, Mister Matthews,” she says.

“Hosea,” he says. “Call me Hosea.”

“Sure,” she says. “Looks like you’re gettin’ a Christmas scarf outta me, _Hosea_ ,” she murmurs, and she leans in again, kisses his cheek another time, gets to her feet, heads for the door. “Come on in and warm up, Susan’s fixin’ breakfast,” she calls over her shoulder before stepping inside.

Hosea sighs, scrubs one hand over his face.

*

The morning comes and goes, John’s sour mood lifting a little when he gets fruits and a new pair of mittens in his stocking from the ladies, a fine, new hunting knife from Dutch, an engraved leather scabbard for it from Hosea, and a lovely hand-twisted lasso from Arthur.

John doesn’t seem to have the words to fully apologize for being angry, and Dutch seems to have slept all the tension around it away. “Don’t worry, son,” Dutch tells him, putting one arm around his shoulders as they’re waiting on Susan and Bessie to set the table for Christmas dinner. “I was a little mad with myself, too, truth be told.” Dutch shares a secret glance with Hosea, at that, and Hosea shakes his head, smiles at him, too fond of him to poke fun.

Both John and Hosea keep relaxing, in their own ways, all through dinner, but it’s after, in the evening, the sun quickly setting outside, that it finally seems to Hosea that John settles; that he, himself, finally feels like he’s settling.

There’s snow falling again, and Dutch has persuaded Arthur to stay indoors, with a gentle hand on the back of Arthur’s head and an argument that, “Colm wouldn’t dare, not on the anniversary of -- and, besides, we’re celebratin’ Christmas today, as a family,” and the promise that they’re all alert and armed, anyhow. “What good would you be doin’ outside that we couldn’t do inside,” he’d said, and Arthur had sighed, gone out to feed the horses, come back in, settled down on the rug next to the fireplace, Copper at his feet.

The ladies are both working on things, Susan darning a pair of John’s socks, Bessie with a pretty green yarn and her knitting needles in her lap -- “See?” she’d asked Hosea, when she’d sat down to start the scarf, holding the yarn up next to his face, “it’ll be fetching and handsome on you, indeed,” -- and Hosea eases himself into his favorite chair, watches as Dutch and John settle on the rug next to Arthur.

“Now,” Dutch is saying, “Arthur gets the pleasure of listening and not reading, this year, because you, Mister Marston, are going to help me read Dickens’s great Christmas story, which, be sure, is a tradition, in this family.”

Arthur scoffs. “Congratulations, kid,” he says to John, out of the corner of his mouth, and Dutch frowns at him.

“Arthur,” Dutch gently scolds, and Arthur looks away, turns his attention back to petting Copper’s belly.

“Get comfortable,” Dutch is telling John, “you’ll read better that way,” and, somehow, both of them end up leaning against Hosea’s chair, supporting their backs against its two front legs. Dutch has the book open on his lap, and John stretches his skinny, gangly legs long out next to Dutch’s, looking over Dutch’s left shoulder, starting to read slowly, Dutch helping him with the harder words.

Hosea smiles as he listens to them start the story, as he feels Dutch lean the side of his head against his right knee. Hosea’s right hand finds its way to Dutch’s hair, and Dutch leans in a little more, reminding Hosea, again, of a big, affectionate cat, rubbing up on him. Hosea flexes his fingers in Dutch’s hair, and nearly falls asleep that way, losing himself in the familiar words of the story and the stop-start cadence of John’s reading voice.

It’s late when John finally gets to the last lines. “May that truly be said of us, and all of us,” John concludes. “And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one.”

Dutch closes the book, loops his left arm around John’s shoulders, pulls him closer, and John doesn’t resist, leans into Dutch sleepily. “Did you enjoy the book?” Dutch asks. John nods. “Did you have a good late Christmas, my boy?” Dutch asks him quietly.

“Mm-hm,” John hums. “Sorry I was sour, earlier,” he mumbles, and Dutch pets his hair.

“That’s just fine,” Dutch says. “I understand. I was hurt some, as a boy, too, you know. But I promise you, John, me and Hosea --” Dutch glances up at Hosea, who nods, agreeing -- “we will never _mean_ to hurt you. Things might happen, but.” He sighs. “We wouldn’t ever hurt you on purpose, lie to you just to be mean. I promise.”

John nods; Dutch lets him go, unfolds himself from the floor. “You get to bed, now,” he says to John, and suddenly everyone except for Hosea is on their feet, bustling around, wishing one another goodnight.

Ten minutes later and all that’s left is the lowly-stoked fire and Dutch, standing in the middle of the room, pulling his boots on.

“You wanna cigarette?” he asks Hosea, holding his hand out to him.

Hosea takes his hand as he gets out of his chair. “Sure,” he says, both of them shrugging into their coats, stepping out onto the porch.

The half-moon is high and bright over today’s newly-fallen snow, Arthur and Copper’s tracks out to the barn and back the only flaw on the perfect, shimmering, white ground.

They lean against the porch rail together. Dutch lights his cigarette, offers one to Hosea. He takes it, watching Dutch in the light of the moon as he leans in, lights Hosea’s cigarette for him, gently takes the cigarette back from Hosea, holding it and his own, in his right hand, leans in and tugs at the back of Hosea’s neck with his left hand, presses his lips to Hosea’s.

Hosea hums into the kiss, tastes plum pudding and cigarette smoke on Dutch’s mouth as he brings his right hand up to cup Dutch’s jaw, both of their cigarettes burning away in Dutch’s hand, two tiny plumes of smoke drifting into the night. Dutch kisses him, long and sweet and questioning, all tongue and chapped lips, raised and scratchy where his split lip’s still healing.

Dutch eventually pulls away, sighs, hands Hosea back his cigarette.

“You alright?” Hosea asks, but Dutch just sighs more, reaches for Hosea with his free left hand, doesn’t look at him as Hosea offers Dutch his right hand, pulls Dutch closer, their palms touching and then sliding away as Hosea loops his right arm around Dutch’s waist.

Dutch leans the left side of his head against Hosea’s right shoulder, smokes his cigarette slowly.

“Family men, huh,” he says, once his cigarette is gone. He turns his head, looks at Hosea, throws the butt in the snow in the yard.

“Maybe, darlin’,” Hosea says, finishing off his own cigarette, throwing it into the same divot in the snow as Dutch’s. He squeezes Dutch’s waist, thinking of the warm bed inside; of falling asleep listening to Dutch, and Arthur, and John, and Copper, breathe; of the differences between Bessie’s and Dutch’s lips. “Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas, yall <3 <3 <3  
> many, many thanks to [gwennolmarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/profile) and the rest of the discord for reminding me to keep my Vaseline Discourse real.  
> dedicating this one to [brahe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/profile) ilysm to the moon and back thank u for always stanning me even when it's not your fandom  
> also you can read the full 1843 christmas carol story on [project gutenberg](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/46/46-h/46-h.htm), would recommend.  
> tumblr: [inconocible](https://inconocible.tumblr.com/)


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